


let's watch the flowers grow

by reachthetree



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Flowers, Kissing, M/M, Tattoo Artist Grantaire, Trans Enjolras, Trans Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:39:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7200236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reachthetree/pseuds/reachthetree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>
    <b>could we meet up sometime? i don’t know many other trans guys so it’d be nice to talk i think</b>
  </i>
</p><p>It’s casual. It’s completely casual that the guy who Grantaire has admired from the wall for several months, wants to hang out with him. It’s so fucking casual that Grantaire feels like small sprouts of rosemary have started growing in his chest. Casual.</p><p>–––</p><p>Grantaire is ugly, Enjolras is beautiful. They live in different worlds, until they don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's watch the flowers grow

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this ages ago for my friend Algernon because it was his birthday, but i psyched myself out about a hundred times because I'd never written Les Mis fic before and this fandom is scary to write in. It was meant to be a simple florist/tattoo artist au thing, just a drabble really, but it got away from me and ended up being not really that at all.
> 
> The title is from Flowers in the window by Travis, of course. The tags should be sufficient as content warnings, I think. My eternal love and thanks to [Sara](http://archiveofourown.org/users/granteares/pseuds/granteares) and [Kathleen](http://selkieponine.tumblr.com), who read this through and helped make it better. Remaining crappiness is my own. 
> 
> Anyway, here it is, a belated happy birthday to Algernon, and to the rest of you, hope you enjoy this if you should choose to read it!

It’s 11.54 AM and Grantaire, much to Eponine’s amusement, is already outside the shop smoking. He never asks her to join him in this, but she always does, smokes his cigarettes and pretends not to have her own reason for being out there. He would call her on it if he didn’t secretly like having her there.

“One of these days he’s going to notice, you know,” she says and reaches her hand out for a cigarette.

Grantaire gives her one, but he lights his own before handing her the lighter. “He already has,” he grumbles. “But it’s perfectly normal for me to have a regular smoke break at my own place of work, you know.”

She laughs, and smoke curls in the air from her nostrils, like she’s a heavily tattooed dragon. “You don’t think he sees you attempting to _make love_ to him with your eyes?” She says ‘make love’ with scathing sarcasm, and Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“I’m an artist,” he says. “I don’t eye-fuck people, I eye-paint them.”

It’s a lie, of course, and they both know it; Grantaire doesn’t draw people, especially not ethereally beautiful ones. The laughter erupting from Eponine echoes all over the street, and a few people turn their heads to find the source of the sound. 

“Dude,” she says when she regains her breath, “you can’t say shit like that and expect me to take it seriously. You’re totally eye-banging him.”

“Even if I was,” he says, “you’re hardly one to judge. May I inquire the reason you’re standing here, hm? Surely it has nothing to do with the blonde who usually comes out of the flower shop around this time, right?”

The rising of blood on Eponine’s cheeks feels extremely rewarding. Before she has time to retort, the door to Prouvaire’s Plants opens, and out steps said blonde. She’s wearing a sundress, despite it only being May, and a neat crown of daisies in her hair. Upon seeing her, Eponine coughs and puts her cigarette out with the heel of her boot.

“I’m gonna go for lunch,” she says, and she doesn’t bother to get her jacket before she hurriedly walks down the street in the same direction as the flower girl.

This leaves Grantaire alone when the object of his admiration can finally be seen walking down the street. He comes here around the same time every day, and he always enters the flower shop. Grantaire lights a new cigarette, and watches. Today he’s wearing new jeans, Grantaire notices, and then realises that’s probably creepy of him to know. They look nice, just right around his muscular thighs and even fitting closely around his calves. As always, he walks like he’s on an important mission, gaze straight ahead and an absent look on his face. Grantaire eye-paints him, commits the fall of his blond curls to his memory, until he opens the door to the flower shop and is gone from sight.

Grantaire sighs. Beautiful people live in another world, but for a few short moments every day, he tries to forget that and imagine that he lives in the same world as them. The same world as him. A world where people don’t look uncomfortable when they see your face; a world where any attempt at a good first impression isn’t futile.

Back in the shop, Grantaire heads into the back room for lunch. He’s brought a jar of pickled cucumber, which he eats with a fork until his throat starts to burn. He needs to get better at bringing lunches that are actually lunches.

“Guess who’s got a date?” Eponine shouts as she dances into the little back room. She grins and points to herself with both thumbs. “This girl!”

“I’m so happy for you.” Grantaire truly doesn’t mean to sound sarcastic; it just comes naturally to him.

Eponine just laughs. “Don’t be bitter just because I actually tried and you never do,” she says and grins smugly. “You could do something, too, you know.”

 _What, approach the modern day embodiment of Adonis?_ Grantaire snorts bitterly. “Thanks,” he drawls. “But I prefer the crushing knowledge of being thoroughly out of his league, rather than humiliating myself because you thought it would be funny.”

The smile fades from Eponine’s face. “Hey,” she says. “He’d be lucky to have you.”

Grantaire feels a disconcerting thickness in his throat. He stays silent, and starts washing his fork. He’s still a bit hungry.

“You’re a wonderful person,” Eponine continues. “Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to date you?”

He wants to appreciate her effort, he really does. “Anyone who takes one look at,” he gestures from his face down his body, “this.”

To Eponine’s credit, she doesn’t comment on how unsteady his voice is. “You’re more than that, though,” she persists instead.

Grantaire throws the dish brush in the sink and turns around with his hands on his waist. “The world doesn’t work like that, and you know it. So stop it.” He blinks furiously because he refuses to cry about this any more.

Eponine puts her hands up. “Sorry,” she says. “I just don’t think it’s fair.”

Grantaire’s hands fall down to hang at his sides. “It isn’t,” he says. “But that’s life.”

She doesn’t protest this time.

☁

During the week that follows, Grantaire learns more about the blonde flower girl than he ever wished to. Her name is Cosette, she’s got “the cutest” music note tattoo behind one of her ears, she’s a close friend to Jehan, who apparently is the Prouvaire of Prouvaire’s Plants, and she lives with and takes care of her aging father.

“Isn’t that sweet?” Eponine demands, and looks at Grantaire with an enthusiasm he can’t bring himself to damper.

“It’s really sweet,” he says, and takes a drag of his cigarette.

Eponine keeps gushing over Cosette while Grantaire watches the determined guy walk into the shop. 

“His name is Enjolras,” Eponine says suddenly, and Grantaire tears his gaze from the street.

“Excuse me?”

Eponine looks extremely pleased with herself. “I said his name is Enjolras,” she repeats. “He’s a friend of Cosette’s and Jehan’s, too.”

“Enjolras.” Grantaire repeats the name. He’s imagined many names for him over the months he’s done this, but none of them has fitted as well. Of course Grantaire’s mind isn’t capable of aptly naming a vision such as him.

“He seems nice,” Eponine goes on. She waggles her eyebrows.

“You haven’t said anything to your new friends, have you?” Grantaire looks at her sternly.

She throws her hands up, dropping her half-smoked cigarette on the ground. “I swear, I said nothing! Cosette just mentioned an Enjolras, and I asked who it was, and she said that I might have seen him, because he comes to the shop almost every day to have lunch with Jehan.”

Grantaire nods, and casts another glance to the shop. There’s no sign of Enjolras. “All right,” he says finally.

☁

Grantaire suspects nothing when Eponine asks him to the pub Friday night. It’s Friday, and they deserve an after work drink. They’re halfway through their first pints when Cosette appears. That alone could have made Grantaire grumpy, but that’s not all.

Behind her walks the modern Adonis Grantaire now knows to be Enjolras. Fuck.

“Hello!” Cosette chirps, and Grantaire forces a smile. “May we join you?”

Eponine responds before Grantaire can even open his mouth. “Of course. Sit down, I’ll get you drinks. What would you like?”

Cosette asks for jack and coke and Enjolras asks for a cup of tea. Grantaire does his best not to cringe. Tea in a pub on a Friday night?

Since Eponine is gone, Enjolras sits down on her chair, across from Grantaire. He takes a large gulp. If he had believed in God, he might have thought this was a test.

Cosette takes a seat next to Grantaire, and when Eponine returns with a tray, she sits down across from her date.

“Such a surprise to see you here,” Eponine says conversationally and casts Grantaire a meaningful look.

He goes to kick her under the table, but it’s Enjolras who flinches. Oh no. Oh fuck no.

“Did you just kick me?” He’s staring right at Grantaire with a gaze as intense as one would expect. It takes Grantaire a moment to gather himself.

“Er, yeah. I didn’t mean to.”

“Felt pretty deliberate,” Enjolras says with a disbelieving eyebrow raise.

Grantaire can feel his face heat up. “It was for Eponine,” he mumbles.

Eponine is leaned over the table, holding hands with Cosette, looking like sunshine. How come her life is always so easy? It’s unfair, is what it is.

“Why were you kicking her?” Enjolras frowns, but he doesn’t look as angry anymore.

“Surely that doesn’t matter.” Grantaire braves a smile. “Cheers.” He lifts his glass toward Enjolras, who shrugs and lifts his cup of tea.

They’re just about to toast when Jehan arrives. “Hello, sweetlings!” Jehan smiles and hugs Cosette, who’s still holding Eponine’s hand. “I haven’t met you before,” they address Grantaire, voice soft and melodic.

“I’m Grantaire,” he says and offers his hand to shake. 

Jehan shakes it, and says “Jehan, they and them pronouns, please.” 

They smile and Grantaire nods, but they don’t let go of his hand. It takes Grantaire a second to realise they’re studying his tattoos. 

“Love,” they read from one knuckle, “and hate,” from the other. “Philosophical.”

They let go of Grantaire’s hand and smiles. “Are you across the road from us? I think I’ve seen you.”

Grantaire nods. He longs to take that drink he proposed to Enjolras, but Jehan is very sweet, too sweet to interrupt with drinking. “I take it you’re the Prouvaire?”

This causes Jehan to light up. “The very same,” they say proudly. “Please don’t hesitate to come in. We specialize in finding new uses for flowers, beyond the usual birthday-wedding-anniversary-apology ordeal.”

Jehan squeezes in between Grantaire and Cosette, and starts talking about feng shui and cacti and how the two go together.

Enjolras drinks with tiny sips, and his hands – is that a hint of glitter on his nails? – envelop the cup like it’s fragile and precious and not from IKEA and with damaged edges. Grantaire vaguely registers what Jehan is saying about peaceful interior design, but Enjolras is sitting right there and he’s no less captivating upon a closer look. At this short distance Grantaire sees the fire in his eyes that his determined walk hints at, and his features look no less delicate now he’s so close Grantaire can see the birthmark on his neck.

“Grantaire!” It’s Eponine’s voice that cuts through his mind. He turns his head, and she looks at him with a smirk. “I was just telling Jehan that tattoos are a kind of interior of the soul, but you usually say it better than me.”

Grantaire clears his throat. “Alright.” Jehan and Cosette are both looking at him with their friendly faces, but when he glances over at Enjolras, he’s met with a thoroughly unimpressed expression. He looks down.

“So if our bodies are our temples, right,” he begins, fingers fiddling with the sleeve of his shirt. “We are free to decorate them however we choose. And, like, you might not love your body, but, even if you can’t choose the floor plan of this metaphorical house, you can at least choose art to hang on the walls.” He takes a breath. “Art affects you. And I know for me tattoo art has made my life, my body, a tiny bit better.”

There’s a moment of silence when he’s done, but then Cosette lights up. She turns her head around with her hair pulled back to show off her tattoo behind her ear. “I love this tattoo,” she says proudly. “And now I love it even more.”

“What about meaning?” Enjolras interrupts. “Say you get a tattoo for a cause, and then that becomes remote. What do you do?”

“Then you’ll have a memory of something that once meant a lot to you,” Grantaire says easily. He’s been asked this question often, by anxious first-timers and skeptical parents.

Jehan is amazed. “I have a newfound respect for your profession,” they announce. “Maybe I’ll get a tattoo.”

“I do a mean rank of cherry blossoms.” Grantaire winks at Jehan, who laughs.

“I’ve never heard anyone describe cherry blossoms as mean before,” they say.

Grantaire shrugs. “I need another drink,” he says, and gets up to get one.

When he gets back, Eponine is talking to Enjolras. Grantaire wishes he could kick her, but he won’t be trying that again. He sits down with his drink instead, and takes a sip.

“I think Grantaire would be better at that,” he hears Eponine say.

“You called?” He looks at her, not at Enjolras. But she nods over to him.

Enjolras looks down at the table. “I was looking to get a, well, a trans symbol tattoo.”

Holy shit. Looking at Enjolras has been hard enough on Grantaire’s battered heart; talking to him might prove fatal.

“I can do that,” Grantaire says, trying to sound as smooth as possible. “Where do you want it?”

Enjolras bites his lip. “I was thinking on my thigh,” he says.

Grantaire almost chokes on his beer. This is enough to make him believe in some sort of deity – one that has it in for him.

“Sure,” he manages. “Yeah.”

There’s a brief silence between them, but the pub has started to fill up with people, so it’s not by any means quiet.

Then Jehan puts their hand on Grantaire’s arm on the table. “I have to ask,” they say. “Do you do mates rates?”

A nervous laugh escapes Grantaire, and his connection to Enjolras is broken.

☁

On Monday, Grantaire expects nothing out of the ordinary. He’s got a booking at ten, covering up the name of an ex-boyfriend on someone’s foot, and he looks forward to his lunchtime cigarette in the sun and the hummus sandwich he’s brought as lunch.

He’s by his drawing table when Enjolras comes in at nine thirty.

“Hello.” He’s not tall, but his posture gives his appearance an air of grandeur. “I’m here to book an appointment.” When Grantaire doesn’t respond right away, he adds, “if that’s okay?”

Grantaire finds himself, and nods hurriedly. “Of course, that’s great.” He gets up, unsure what to do with his hands as he walks behind the counter to pull up his schedule. “Er, so, what time would work for you?”

“As soon as possible,” Enjolras says. His elbows barely reach the top of the counter, and Grantaire fights an unprofessional smile. He looks like a feisty fairy, wild hair and all.

“I have an open spot tomorrow at three pm,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras nods gravely. “Do you do deposits here at, uh,” he reads from the business cards on the counter, “Inkredible?” He makes an amused snorting sound, his face softening. “Good name.”

Grantaire hopes he doesn’t blush. “Thanks. And nah, we don’t believe in deposits, just come in as you are and we’ll take it from there.”

“Brilliant. See you tomorrow, then.” Enjolras takes a card from the holder and puts it in the pocket of his denim jacket, and Grantaire awkwardly salutes him.

He’s left the shop before Grantaire remembers that he should have wished him a good day.

☁

When Enjolras comes through the door the following afternoon, Grantaire shoots up from his drawing table.

“I sketched out some alternatives,” he blurts out, “if you don’t have one, which is fine, of course, whatever you want, it’s your body, obviously.”

Enjolras flinches at the stream of words, but it’s only a moment before he walks over to Grantaire’s table and fishes a piece of paper from his pocket. “Thank you,” he starts. “But I want it to be this, that I drew myself.” Grantaire unfolds the paper, and Enjolras adds, “I know it’s a bit wonky, but it’s supposed to be. It’s important to me that I made it.”

The trans symbol on the paper – that looks like it was torn out of a journal – isn’t perfectly circular, and the lines aren’t straight.

“It looks perfect,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras flashes a nervous smile, and Grantaire walks over to the copier. “This is the size you want?” He asks before putting it in. Enjolras nods.

“So, what do you do?” Grantaire asks while putting the paper in the copier. He always asks that when he does this with a customer, it’s a reflex at this point.

“I’m currently writing my master’s thesis in gender studies,” Enjolras says.

“That’s amazing.” The words are out of Grantaire’s mouth before he can think them through.

Enjolras lights up. “It’s about non-binary genders and feminism,” he says, and he proceeds to talk about it through all of the preparations. He’s captivating when he talks; all excited hand gestures and sparkling eyes.

Grantaire looks away when Enjolras takes his jeans off, humming instead of nodding to show he’s still listening to Enjolras talk. Enjolras points at where he wants the tattoo: a bit above his left knee, to the outer side.

When Grantaire has shaved the area, and asks if Enjolras is ready for him to put the stencil on, Enjolras stops him. Grantaire stills and waits. Enjolras takes a deep breath.

“Have you tattooed a design like this before?” His brows are knitted, his shoulders tense.

Grantaire nods. He puts the stencil down, and pulls up the sleeve of his red and white raglan shirt to show his left forearm. Enjolras gasps.

“I did it on myself,” Grantaire says, tracing the tattoo with his fingers.

It’s a rather large trans symbol, with a rose inside the circle, and the lines entwined with leaves and thorns.

Enjolras’ shoulders sink down to their normal position. “It’s gorgeous,” he says. “Thank you for showing it to me.”

Thankfully, he doesn’t comment on the thick scars visible under the ink.

Grantaire pulls his sleeve down again. “No problem.” He smiles a tight-lipped smile. “Do you feel better?”

“I feel perfectly safe now,” Enjolras says. The earnestness hits Grantaire right in his scarred chest.

“I’m glad,” he rasps out.

After that, they both stay quiet. Enjolras inhales through his teeth when it hurts. Grantaire goes into the almost meditative state of tattooing, where nothing exists except the lines and the black ink, and the buzzing sound of the machine filling the room.

It’s only when it’s done and Grantaire wipes away some blood that he registers that he’s touching Enjolras. The most beautiful person Grantaire has ever seen, and here he sits in Grantaire’s workroom, magenta socks and wobbly knees and all.

Grantaire doesn’t look him in the eye when he tells him how to care for it.

“What if I have a question?” Enjolras is carefully trying to fit the plastic-wrapped area into his jeans.

“Then you call me,” Grantaire says, because that’s what he always says. “My number’s on the card, if you’ve still got it. Otherwise you can take a new one.”

Enjolras, fully clothed again to Grantaire’s great relief, straightens his back and smiles. “I still have it,” he says. “Thank you.”

When Enjolras has left, Grantaire smokes three cigarettes in a row. It wasn’t a difficult job, not at all, but he feels exhausted.

☁

The following days, Grantaire waits until he’s seen Enjolras enter Prouvaire’s Plants to have his cigarette. It doesn’t taste as good, but no matter. Eponine has started disappearing at lunch, no doubt to have disgustingly adorable dates with Cosette. They’re probably sharing a milkshake or some shit, Grantaire thinks and inhales extra deeply. Spring is a rubbish time for being bitter; the entirety of nature seems to mock you, flower petals like taunting tongues stuck out from the mouth of the world, the sun shining an unforgiving light on your shortcomings and highlighting just how unbecoming bitterness really is.

But it’s whatever. Maybe the privilege of tattooing Enjolras should be enough for Grantaire; it’s certainly more than he had ever hoped for.

He’s really not prepared when he gets a text from an unknown number. 

_**i have an important tattoo question /enjolras with the trans thigh’** _

Grantaire only realises he’s grinning when his cigarette falls out of his mouth and lands on the ground next to his left boot.

_**‘i’m all ears /grantaire with the trans arm** _

He puts his phone in his pocket and goes inside to eat his lunch (crackers and Great Value soft cheese), resisting the urge to stare at his phone until he gets a reply. He’s not going to be that person.

As soon as he’s sat down in the little break room, he feels a buzz in his pocket. 

_**how bad would it be if i scratched it in my sleep** _

Grantaire puts the cracker he’s holding in the cheese container, and wipes his fingers on his jeans before replying. 

_**not great, but you can’t help it when you’re not conscious so don’t worry about it !** _

Resolutely, he puts the phone on the table with the screen down. He manages a whole of three crackers before it buzzes again.

_**hmm ok thank you. can i ask you another question?** _

Usually Grantaire hates when people preface a question with another question. This time he smiles. 

_**sure, i’m just eating lunch, ask away** _

A few minutes pass. Grantaire loses his self-discipline and stares at his phone while he eats, waiting. He almost chokes on cheese when the text finally comes.

_**could we meet up sometime? i don’t know many other trans guys so it’d be nice to talk i think** _

It’s casual. It’s completely casual that the guy who Grantaire has admired from the wall for several months, wants to hang out with him. It’s so fucking casual that Grantaire feels like small sprouts of rosemary have started growing in his chest. Casual.

It’s also casual how Grantaire rewrites his response for fifteen minutes before sending it.

_**sure that’d be cool! maybe we could go to the botanic gardens or something** _

After sending that, Grantaire is in desperate need to either punch a pillow or run a marathon. He settles for yelling out his excitement in the quiet room, and then dancing around the shop until Eponine comes back.

☁

The cherry trees are in blossom, and Enjolras has brought a bottle of whiskey in his tote bag with the text “smash homophobia and heterosexism!” on it.

Grantaire sees the bottle and raises his eyebrows. “I got the impression that you don’t drink,” he says. His stomach is in an uproar from the anxiety he’s built up the past few days, and he wouldn’t mind a taste or five of that bottle to settle him.

Enjolras makes a face. “I’m just picky,” he admits. “Drinking good stuff at pubs is expensive, and I don’t really see the point of alcohol if it doesn’t taste good, so I only drink on occasion.”

This could have sounded like judgment, but Grantaire doesn’t hear it as such. “Cool,” he says instead. “I hope you share, I’m dying to know what’s good enough for you.” What he doesn’t say: this is an occasion?

They’re walking through a path with rows of cherry trees, glancing sideways at each other when they talk.

“That makes me sound very demanding.” Enjolras frowns.

A family walks past them, the child skipping ahead of their parents holding a yellow balloon.

Grantaire shrugs. “You said you were picky.” When he glances at Enjolras, he perceives a small smile on his face.

“Still,” Enjolras says.

They’re quiet for a few moments, until they reach the end of the cherry trees. 

“Where do you wanna go next?” Grantaire throws his hands out, to point in all the directions they can go, but he notices that they’re trembling and puts them back into his pockets.

“The rose garden.” Enjolras sounds certain. They start walking, and he continues, “When I was a kid, I tore all the petals off my dad’s roses in the garden because they felt nice on my skin. He was furious.”

Grantaire chuckles. “Might not want to do that here.” He wants to kick himself as soon as he’s said it. Why does he keep antagonising, when his heart calls out for the opposite?

“Well, I’m a well-mannered adult now, at least in the presence of flowers. In the presence of police, not so much.” There’s a hint of pride in Enjolras’ voice, pride and defiance.

Grantaire wonders where he gets his energy. “All cops are bastards,” he says instead.

“Damn right.” Enjolras nods, and then they enter the rose garden.

The scent is heady, strong from the voluminous amount of roses now within touching distance. Grantaire feels his head start to swim a bit. Enjolras reaches a hand out and delicately traces the petals with a fingertip.

“Tell me about something you did as a child,” he says, and turns his head to smile at Grantaire.

Grantaire looks away. “Uh, I ate soap once.” Enjolras laughs, and Grantaire adds, “in my defence it smelled like lemon curd, which was my favourite thing.”

“It isn’t anymore?” Enjolras still has his hand on the rose, but his focus is on Grantaire.

“Not wild over it after the soap taste, no.” Grantaire shifts his weight and the gravel under his boots crunches.

Enjolras starts strolling again, tote bag swinging against his side. Grantaire walks after him and wonders when it will be time for whiskey. He also wishes he’d brought his sunglasses.

“Come on.” Enjolras turns around. “Walk next to me?” He gestures with his hand for Grantaire to walk beside him.

It’s strange how Enjolras’ physical body is smaller than Grantaire’s, but his presence is so much bigger. 

“I also used to try and tame bumblebees,” Enjolras says. He glances at Grantaire. “I thought they were cute. But they always died.”

It’s silent for a beat too long before Grantaire says, “I brought home every cat I saw until one day someone knocked on our door and was livid because I’d stolen their cat.”

Enjolras laughs. “Are all your stories like this?”

He’s stopped by the yellow roses, and looks at Grantaire with raised eyebrows.

“Like what?”

“Like, ending badly.” He’s smiling and the sun is warm and the flower scent is dizzying, yet Grantaire feels like it’s February and raining.

“As far as I can remember, yeah.” He looks away, across the path where there’s white roses. Who gave them the right to blossom so fearlessly?

Enjolras clears his throat. “So, what do you vote for?”

The shock tears Grantaire’s gaze from the roses back to Enjolras. He stands silent for a moment, lips parted and eyes wide. “Oh, uh, wow. Didn’t expect that question. I don’t, actually. I’m an anarchist, so.”

There’s an awkward pause during which an elderly couple walks past them. They spot Enjolras’ bag and upon reading what it says, smile at him. Enjolras waves cheerfully at them. As soon as they’ve got their backs towards them, he looks at Grantaire again.

“I understand that stance, I do,” he begins diplomatically, “but in the current political climate, not voting means more power to the neo-fascism spreading over Europe.”

Grantaire closes his mouth and frowns. 

“I’m just saying,” Enjolras continues, “that could be something to think about.”

“I just don’t think it will make a difference,” Grantaire says. He feels tired.

Enjolras looks shocked. “Of course it will! Every vote for another party is a spot they won’t get. Together, we have power.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Maybe you’re right.”

They walk for a bit more, then Enjolras finally suggests they sit down and have a drink. He puts the bottle in his shoe so it won’t tip over, then crosses his legs and looks at Grantaire.

“It’s a lovely day,” he comments.

It is, weather-wise, but Grantaire has another question weighing on his mind. But he agrees, and willingly takes the bottle when Enjolras offers it to him. They drink for a while, and when Enjolras is in the middle of talking about the health care system, the question slips out of Grantaire.

“Why do you want to be my friend?” Grantaire sits on his hands to keep them from trembling.

Enjolras quiets and looks confused. “I thought I told you? Why do you ask?”

Grantaire takes a deep breath before getting to the point.

“I’m ugly,” he says shortly. “I don’t have the energy to feel sorry for myself anymore, so this isn’t an invite to a pity party, that’s just how it is.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to be your friend because of that?” The lack of half-hearted protest strikes an unknown feeling in Grantaire. No one’s ever been so frank about it so shortly after meeting him. “People are so much more, for fuck’s sake.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Beauty loves company,” he says. “In my experience.”

Enjolras huffs. “Beauty!” But then he goes silent, and rips a blade of grass from the ground and twirls it around his fingers. The sound of children’s laughter can be heard from the pond nearby.

“I’ve always been considered beautiful,” he starts, with a careful voice. “Both before and after transitioning. And that–” He pauses and throws the blade of grass away. “I can’t imagine how you feel, and I don’t want to take away from that, but I just want to tell you how I feel. And since I’ve always been considered beautiful, I’ve come to see beauty as utterly meaningless.”

Irritation rises in Grantaire’s throat. He reaches for the whiskey bottle situated in Enjolras’ shoe and takes a sip, saying nothing.

“I’m aware being considered attractive affords me privileges,” Enjolras continues, and Grantaire looks up at him again. “I know that very well. What I’m after is more that sometimes people see nothing else when they look at me.” His brows are knitted, his mouth in a serious line. “And I hate that.”

Grantaire rolls over and looks up at the sky, ignoring the grass tickling his neck. “I could say the same about ugliness,” he tells the clouds. “But what’s the point? At the end of the day, no one’s gonna bother finding out if I have any good qualities, meanwhile hot people can act like assholes and get away with it because they have a good jawline or whatever.”

It’s easier to talk when he’s not looking at Enjolras; when he’s not the annoying person who’s interested in Enjolras’ beauty. The whiskey warmth spreading from his stomach isn’t enough to thaw the ice block of shame chafing in his chest.

“I meant what I said in that text,” Enjolras says. “I want to get to know you because I always want more trans friends. I couldn’t give less of a shit about your appearance.”

Grantaire has to look at him again. He turns his head, and Enjolras’ head is blocking the sun. His brows are knitted and his expression serious.

Without a word, Grantaire hands Enjolras the whiskey bottle. Enjolras drinks, then licks his lips and looks into Grantaire’s eyes.

“Okay,” Grantaire says. “Fine.” He takes the bottle back. “Let’s close this topic and move on to merrier things.”

Enjolras smiles. “Great! What’s your opinion on The Danish Girl?”

Grantaire takes a drink before venturing to respond. During the rest of their discourse, fueled as they are by whiskey and impending summer, Enjolras is lively and Grantaire feels something akin to relaxation.

When they walk out of the gates, the ground soft under their whiskey-warm feet, Grantaire has an indescribable feeling. It’s not alcohol, although maybe the feeling is heightened by it. He feels like this is not an end but a beginning.

But once the alcohol has worn off, he doesn’t feel the same. What lingers is an acute feeling of embarrassment about nothing in particular, just his entire existence, and having existed in the direct vicinity of Enjolras. And Enjolras had smiled in the sun and looked at him like he was a person. Somehow that thought is both comforting and devastating.

But he doesn’t have to live in that agonised state for long. Three days later, Enjolras texts him and suggests hanging out at his place the coming weekend, saying he’ll bring his favourite rum.

It’s not as if Grantaire could say no to a proposition like that. 

☁

Grantaire and Musichetta bought a set of beautiful tiny teacups in a second hand shop when they were setting up their joint home. They have gilt rims and violets painted on them, and they’re thin. Grantaire has never dared to use them, but now that Enjolras is coming over, he asks Musichetta to take two down from the high shelf where they reside. He has to wash them, because there’s dust inside them.

“Bringing out the fine china for this boy, eh?” Musichetta looks amused and delighted. “I’ll leave soon, got two dates to catch tonight, you know. Do you need me to reach something else?” She winks at him.

The cups feel frail in Grantaire’s hand. “Fuck off,” he says. “But thank you.”

“You’ll be fine,” she says and rubs his shoulder. Her pointed fingernails catch in the stitchings of his jumper.

“Yeah.” Grantaire swallows.

Musichetta whirls out of the door leaving a faint scent of jasmine perfume behind her, and Grantaire puts the cups on the living room table. They look out of place on the worn, stained surface. Hesitating, he fills one of them with vodka and drains it.

Enjolras might not care that he’s ugly, but there’s still plenty of time for him to discover that Grantaire is a terrible person. 

He takes another shot before Enjolras arrives.

“Nice,” Enjolras says when he sees the political paraphernalia on the walls in the hallway. He shrugs out of his denim jacket and Grantaire takes it, almost drops it, and puts it on a hanger.

“My flatmate is out,” Grantaire says, and promptly blushes a second later when he realises what that statement could have implied.

Enjolras looks disappointed, though. “Pity, I should have liked to meet her.” He shrugs, and lifts his totebag with the tell-tale shape inside. “I kept my word.”

“Brilliant,” Grantaire manages.

Sometimes he wishes he didn’t rely on alcohol to take him through unfamiliar situations. It’s just that it makes him forget, for a while, that his body is what it is, that his personality is what it is. His feelings have been penned by The Magnetic Fields: _Sober, life is a prison; shitfaced, it is a blessing. Sober, you’re old and ugly; shitfaced, who needs a mirror._ Et cetera.

Grantaire puts some music on, and gestures for Enjolras to sit down on the sofa.

“Oh, these cups are lovely,” Enjolras exclaims when he sees them. “Are we to drink from these?”

“No, those are just decoration,” Grantaire replies sarcastically. He’s turned from Enjolras, so he can’t see his hands trembling putting the cord into his ipod.

As hoped, Enjolras chuckles, and in a microsecond before the music comes on, Grantaire hears the streaming of liquor into the cups.

He sits down and immediately lifts the cup to Enjolras, who mirrors him. “Cheers,” he says.

“Cheers.” Enjolras meets his eyes for a moment before they both drink.

The rum tastes like sugar and alcohol and Grantaire savours the sting on his tongue and in his throat. 

Enjolras has a thick coat of hairspray on his hair, and when he thoughtlessly cards his hand through it, it makes a sound like dry leaves in autumn. “Oops, “ he says and shrugs, then wipes his hand on his jeans.

“How’s the tattoo healing?” Grantaire asks, watching the hand on the thigh. That he tattooed.

“Good, I think?” Enjolras shrugs. “Nothing to compare with, but it does what you said it’d do.”

“Good.” Grantaire feels awkward again. Somehow they live in the same world now, him and Enjolras, a world different from Grantaire’s usual one and decidedly different from the world of beautiful people. He doesn’t know what rules there are in this new world, what he can say, how he can be.

“Has this happened to you a lot?” Enjolras asks and reaches for his cup of rum.

“Rum?” Grantaire makes a face and pretends his hands aren’t shaking.

Enjolras laughs and shakes his head. “A customer invading your life like this,” he says and gestures around the flat.

The thought is comical, but Grantaire doesn’t laugh. “No, this has never happened to me before.” He drinks some of his own rum, his fingers clumsy around the cup.

From the speakers come a sound of distorted guitars, but the volume is low, so the raw composition sounds unusually tame. Enjolras taps his foot on the floor to the feverish beat.

“Am I special then?” He looks at Grantaire and his dark brown eyes seem to glitter.

Grantaire looks away. “I suppose,” he says to the table, where there’s a mark from when he and Musichetta got drunk on red wine and he started carving something with her nail file. If he remembers correctly he meant to carve the word “dick”, but Musichetta stopped him. There’s just a line there now.

“Not everyone would let me in like this, you know,” Enjolras says, and he doesn’t sound mischievous now. “ _You’re_ special.”

The word ‘special’ has never been a favourite of Grantaire’s; he’s heard it used as a covert insult one too many times, by peers, psychiatrists, parents. But when Enjolras says it, it sounds like the best thing in the world to be.

So Grantaire smiles. He drinks again, and his cup is already empty. Silly small cups. Enjolras doesn’t say anything, just opens the bottle again, and Grantaire holds his cup out to be refilled. Enjolras pokes his tongue out in concentration while he pours, and it’s pink and wet. Much like tongues are, but Grantaire has never watched another person’s tongue like this before. He closes his eyes and tries to stop himself.

Enjolras is tired of being beautiful, of being looked at. He remembers and he’s not going to be that person.

“Why’d you close your eyes?”

Grantaire’s eyes snap open by reflex at the sound of Enjolras’ voice. “No reason.” He averts his eyes from Enjolras’ enquiring gaze and lifts his cup. “Cheers, then.”

And he tosses the entire thing back before Enjolras has time to refill his own cup. Bad host manners, he knows, but if he keeps this pace up he’ll soon be too inebriated to care.

The music thumps on, muted and soft, and Enjolras shrugs before following Grantaire’s example. He shudders when he’s swallowed the liquor and looks at Grantaire.

“This feels good after the week I’ve had,” he says. “So much work.”

“I can only imagine,” Grantaire says. The words sound feeble and awkward to him, but he’s starting to feel warm with alcohol, so no anxiety.

“Doing this is really making me reconsider the whole academia business,” Enjolras continues, while refilling their cups again. “It’s a fucked up system of power, and I don’t know if it’s naïve to think I can change it from within. What else am I to do, though?”

“Blow it up,” Grantaire jokes, the brown liquid in the cup rippling as his hand shakes.

Enjolras laughs out loud. “I like the way you think,” he says. “Maybe I will. I gotta blow up every bank too, though, properly make society reboot.”

“Like in Fight Club?” Grantaire smiles, and this time he drinks slowly, relaxed.

But Enjolras frowns. “I don’t like the ridiculous masculinity performed in Fight Club,” he says. “But the idea to blow everything up and make society restart with everyone on the same level, might be something.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

They clink their cups, carefully so as not to damage the porcelain, and drink. Enjolras’ cheeks are starting to flush red, and his smile appears glowing.

Grantaire looks away, but he’s still smiling at Enjolras.

☁

The next morning Grantaire wakes by the sun. It hurts his eyes, and he’s sweating, and kicks off the covers only to still abruptly when he realises how nauseous moving makes him feel. The previous night lingers in his body not only in the hangover but in a mixed feeling of comfort and nervousness. He sees flashes of Enjolras’ smile, his flushed cheeks, and hears his laugh.

One might even say that the night went well. Desperately trying to produce some saliva to dampen his dry mouth, Grantaire remembers how when Enjolras left, he had hugged him. His hair smelled like hairspray and sweat and Grantaire had gripped him tightly, inhibitions gone about five cups of rum ago.

In the morning light, it still seems like the right thing to do. There might be a case to think that the unsettled feeling in his stomach is anxiety over what Enjolras thought, but it could just as well be the hangover.

Grantaire desperately needs water, and does his best not to dwell on it. Musichetta arrives home around three in the afternoon, her hair messier than Grantaire has ever seen it. She just grins and asks if he wants pizza. They eat it and watch tv together, and Grantaire decidedly doesn’t check his phone for texts, thankful for how the hangover subdues his usual anxieties.

But when he checks his phone before going to bed, there’s a text from Enjolras waiting for him. 

_**i had fun last night. thank you :) xx** _

He lies down on his bed, holding his phone above him, and reads it again. It’s nice that Enjolras keeps taking initiative; every time, Grantaire feels a little safer.

_**me too. hope we can do it again sometime** _

That doesn’t get a response, though, and Grantaire is anxious again when sleep takes him. He dreams of bumblebees frozen to death.

☁

“I told you it would work out.” Eponine grins triumphantly and blows smoke in Grantaire’s face.

He shrugs and takes a drag. “I don’t know if I’d call it that,” he says and lets the smoke out. “He hates being seen as beautiful, so I’ll never tell him that I…” 

“Eye-fucked him every day for months,” Eponine supplies, always the helpful asshole.

Grantaire sighs. “Whatever. He’s really lovely, though, Ep, I don’t know how long I can keep this up before he realises.”

Eponine frowns. “Realises what?”

“You know, that I’m not beautiful on the inside, so to speak.” Grantaire raises his eyebrows. 

“I don’t know where you keep getting these ridiculous ideas of yours, but trust me, what you’re telling yourself is mostly a pack of lies.” Eponine is talking fast, her eyes wild. “I know you, and I’m telling you, your self-insight is horrible.”

Grantaire doesn’t respond right away. They’ve been through this before, and he’s never convinced.

“Maybe you’re right,” he relents, more because he loves Eponine than any other reason. “I just get nervous around him. He’s so… Much.”

Eponine softens, and she strokes his arm. “Being nervous is okay,” she says. “As long as you don’t let it stop you. Take me and Cosette, for example…”

And she starts talking about seizing the chances you get even though you’re scared, because it can lead to wonderful things. Grantaire zones out when she starts talking about the nuances of brown in Cosette’s eyes, but when their smoke break is over and they go back inside, he gets his phone out and texts Enjolras without analysing it for several minutes.

_**wanna come with me to the natural history museum this weekend? :)** _

☁

When they meet up the following Saturday, Enjolras is smiling and leaning against a wall waiting for Grantaire. When he spots him, he straightens up and waves enthusiastically. Fearless, it seems.

“I’m so glad you texted,” Enjolras says when they wait in line to get in. “I wasn’t sure if you were as pumped about this friendship as I am.” He glances at Grantaire, teeth on show when he smiles.

Enjolras was unsure?

“Well, I am,” Grantaire says. He clears his throat. “I just, I get nervous and think people hate me.”

Enjolras nods slowly. “I’ve gathered as much,” he says. The line moves forward, and they walk two steps before stopping again. “I don’t know if this helps at all, but just so you know, I’m the least subtle person ever. If I hated you, you’d know.”

Nerves and relief and everything comes out of Grantaire in the form of a laugh. “Thanks,” he says. “That does help, actually.”

“Brilliant.” Enjolras smiles at him, and they step forward again. “So, what are you most excited to see in the museum?”

After that, Grantaire relaxes. His favourite in the museum is the geology section, with glittering crystals and everything. He buys a rose quartz for Musichetta in the gift shop. Enjolras spends their entire walk through the animal sections deconstructing the heteronormative framing of the animals, pointing out skewed facts and ranting passionately to the point that a guard asks him to tone it down.

Grantaire laughs, and feels a surge of fondness rush through him. It’s only after they’ve parted ways – and set a date for their next meeting – that it really hits him: he spent time with Enjolras and felt relaxed without alcohol.

Something really is changing.

☁

A few weeks later, Jehan is hosting a party for Enjolras in the flower shop, because Enjolras is done with his thesis. Eponine and Cosette are behind the counter, which is temporarily serving as a bar, kissing. Jehan is holding hands with an overgrown goth who introduced themselves as Montparnasse, and they’re both discussing makeup with someone Grantaire thinks is called Courf. He doesn’t know the other people there and hasn’t had the energy to find out. There’s upbeat music playing from the speaker system and the shop is, naturally, filled with the heady scent of many types of flowers, mixed with perfumes and sweat.

Enjolras, the reason for the party, is sitting on the floor next to a bucket of roses, holding a marshmallow vodka bottle in one hand and a wine glass in the other.

“I can’t believe it’s over.” He smiles dazedly, lips shiny with vodka. “I can’t believe I did it.”

“I can,” Grantaire replies. “You’re a force of nature, obviously you did this brilliantly.”

He’s had a fair amount of marshmallow vodka already, since they’re drinking it straight, but Enjolras is ahead of him. The floor is a bit hard to sit on, but Grantaire likes the feeling. It reminds him of music festivals, being younger and feeling invincible.

“Stop it.” But Enjolras is smiling when he refills both of their glasses. “Thanks for coming, by the way.”

They toast – to Enjolras, obviously – and when they’ve drank, Grantaire says, “of course I came, it’s not every day you get the chance to get plastered in a flower shop.”

Enjolras giggles. “Life is wonderful like that sometimes,” he says. “Speaking of, can I see your tattoo again?” 

Grantaire doesn’t follow that drunk leap in subjects, but he rolls up his sleeve regardless. Enjolras leans closer, and the scent of his deodorant becomes stronger than the roses. Grantaire flinches when Enjolras puts a finger on his arm.

“Sorry,” Enjolras says and leans away again. “I should have asked.”

“It’s okay,” Grantaire manages. “I was just unprepared.”

He holds his arm out and waits. When Enjolras touches him again, he does it even softer than before, tracing the inked lines like it’s a treasure map. He’s so close, Grantaire could kiss his cheek if he just leaned forward a tiny bit. The thought makes his pulse quicken. He wants to take a drink but he also doesn’t want this moment to end. The music and their friends’ voices is blurring into a gentle backdrop, and the moment is so clear it sounds like a movie soundtrack. Enjolras’ fingers, Enjolras’ scent, Grantaire’s scars, Grantaire’s fears. He holds his breath.

Enjolras’ lets his hand rest on Grantaire’s forearm and turns his head to face him, still so close Grantaire almost can’t look at him. Almost.

“You know,” Enjolras says quietly. “I’ve been thinking about ugliness lately.” Grantaire can feel whiffs of sugary alcohol from his mouth. “And I’m not sure I know what it is, apart from eurocentric bullshit.” 

Grantaire can’t help smiling at Enjolras, always political. He’s right, of course. 

“And I’ve been thinking about you,” Enjolras goes on. “I realise why you say you’re ugly, I don’t want to invalidate your experience, but I see something else when I look at you.” His hand is still on Grantaire’s arm, and Grantaire is still holding his breath. “You shine, in my eyes.”

Grantaire drops his glass, but it’s so close to the floor it doesn’t break, just topples over and the vodka spills over the floor. Neither of them looks at it. Grantaire licks his lips, and Enjolras’ gaze follows the movement. He leans the tiniest bit forward, and that confirms beyond doubt what’s going to happen next.

Grantaire meets Enjolras halfway, and they kiss.

It tastes like marshmallow vodka and summer skin, and Enjolras hand leaves Grantaire’s arm to find his neck. The floor is still hard, but the kiss is the opposite at first. When Grantaire opens his mouth and Enjolras crawls up in his lap, he’s vaguely aware that Eponine is whistling, but he’s got more important things to think about. Enjolras is passionate in this too, pushing Grantaire back against the bucket of roses, causing petals to fall off and into Grantaire’s hair and down his shoulders and chest.

They gasp for air, breathing in flower scent and each other, foreheads pressed together, and then Grantaire starts laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm louismiserables on tumblr, and a post for this fic can be found [here](http://louismiserables.tumblr.com/post/146404946892/lets-watch-the-flowers-grow) if you want to reblog it :) xx


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